King's Test (9 page)

But the man's
eyes narrowed, he leaned forward, stared at her closely. "You're
not Rogers!'

"So, what
if I'm not?" she returned, facing him down. "You don't
really give a damn who I am, do you?'

The major
grinned, glanced significantly at the blood on the front of her
flight suit. "Maybe I don't. Are you even a pilot?'

She could either
kill him or go along with him. One jab to the throat, it would be all
over, and Maigrey had the distinct impression that no one would miss
this bastard. She was wondering what his scheme was when she saw
another person move out of the shadows. A young man, clad in a flight
suit. Suddenly, Maigrey knew what was going on.

"Yes, I'm a
pilot." Fortunately her voice was low for a woman's and further
distorted through the helmet mike. "And I need to get off this
ship. "

The major
grinned unpleasantly. "Yeah. I thought so. It'll cost you.'

"I left my
wallet in my other pants."

"Then you
and your other pants can stay here and fry. I ain't runnin' a
charity. Hey, what's this?"

He reached
inside her flightsuit. caught hold of the star-jewel. glittering
brightly on its chain. The major's eyes widened. "What the hell
is it? A diamond? I never saw one that big'"

Grinning at her,
he grasped hold of the jewel's silver chain and twisted. The catch
gave, the chain slid from around her neck, the starjewel gleamed in
his hand. "You just bought your way off this bomb."

Maigrey said
nothing, made no protest. She couldn't, her breath was gone—not
through concern over the jewel's loss. She wasn't worried about it. A
starjewel, taken by force, has a way of returning to its owner. It
was her plan, now suddenly complete, flawless, perfect and brilliant
as the jewel itself, that stole away her breath.

You just
bought your way . . . bomb.

The major tossed
the starjewel in the air, closed his fist over it, and stuffed it in
his shirt pocket. "Let's get a move on, then. Follow me."

The ship was
quiet, except for the muffled sound of an occasional explosion. Time
was ticking by. The officer hastened onto the hangar deck, Maigrey
and the young pilot running after him. They were headed for Sagan's
private plane, and Maigrey feared she'd made a mistake. The officer
never glanced at it, passed it right by. He strode rapidly to the far
end of the hangar bay. Here stood several Scimitars—several
wrecked Scimitars.

"I was
right," she murmured. "You bastard!"

The major
gestured, "Here's your ticket to freedom."

"You expect
us to fly out in those?" Maigrey demanded.

"I don't
expect nothing. I'm not wearing a dead man's flight suit. What are
you'
³
An escaped prisoner, figured you'd sneak away in the
confusion? Or maybe a deserter? All you got to worry about is the kid
here"—the major jerked a thumb at the young pilot—"but
I don't think he'll turn you in. He's too anxious to get off
himself."

Maigrey glanced
at the young pilot, saw his face flush, then harden. He was only a
trainee pilot; the Scimitar pin on his uniform was silver, not gold.
She wondered what he'd been busted for; something pretty serious, to
make him this desperate.

The major leaned
near, clamped his heavy hand over Maigrey's shoulder. The man would
probably never know just how close he came to having it snapped off
at the wrist. "You fly that plane out." He pointed at one
of the wrecks. "The kid'll take the other one."

"You're
crazy! An experienced pilot couldn't fly that plane! You can't expect
this . . . this cadet to—" Maigrey turned to the young
pilot. "How many hours have you logged?"

"Enough."
The young man's tone was defensive.

A calm voice
over the loudspeakers announced that the last of the evac ships were
leaving.

"You better
hurry," Maigrey said to the major, "or you'll miss your
flight. And take the kid here with you."

The major
shrugged. "The prison evac already left. If the kid wants off
this bomb, he can either fly that Scimitar or walk. Same with vou."

He took off at a
dead run. Maigrey was half-inclined to stop him, not certain what
she'd do to him, but plenty certain she'd enjoy doing it.

"It's all
right, Starlady!" the young pilot said. "Really. I'll fly
the plane."

Startled at his
recognition, trying not to show it. Maigrey glanced at him, shook her
head. "Were you talking to me? I'm afraid you have the wrong—?"

"Oh, I know
who you are." The young pilot smiled grimly. "The Warlord's
Starlady. I saw you fight Lord Sagan. The major will figure out who
you are, too, eventually. And when he does, he'll kick himself. He
could have made a lot more money off you than he will off that
jewel."

"Yeah."
Maigrey was examining both spaceplanes, only half-listening. "Look,
kid. We don't have much time. This first plane's not in too bad
shape. I think I can get it as far as
Defiant
, at least. Come
with me—" Reaching out, she laid her hand on his arm.

He moved away
from her touch, shaking his head. "No! I need this flight. I'll
prove I can handle myself this time! I'm off the jump-juice. And
maybe this'll make up for—" The young pilot checked what
he had been about to say. Turning, he headed for the Scimitar,

I could club
him, knock him out, drag him aboard my plane. Maigrey thought. How
many other young hotheads has that bastard major "helped"
to escape or desert? How nam have died? She could hear, some distance
away, an evac ship warming its engines, preparing for takeoff. She
and this kid were probably among the last few remaining on
Phoenix.
Her gaze went to Sagan's plane, which was ready, waiting.

After all. I've
got my own problems, she reminded herself ! have responsibilities
and—

"Oh, hell!"
Maigrey ran after the pilot, caught him as he was scrambling up the
ladder of the charred and battered plane,

"Don't try
it!" She shouted to be heard over the roar of the engines, the
gong warning everyone to clear the area, the shivering rattle of the
hangar bay doors, preparing to open. "Come with me:'

The young man
either didn't hear or he was pretending he didn't. He waved his hand
to her jauntily, climbed down into the cockpit.

Well, I did what
I could, Maigrey told herself gloomily. Maybe he has a chance.

Lowering herself
into the cockpit of her own plane, she began to swear out loud. The
outside hadn't looked bad. Inside was a mess. The pilot's chair was
soaked with blood. The charred and blackened control panel gave
Maigrey an idea how the blood got there. She wondered what
instruments the on-board explosion had knocked out, hoped it was
nothing absolutely essential. At least the fact that the pilot had
been able to make it back with his crippled plane was a good sign.

The engines
fired, and though Maigrey had no instruments to tell her if they were
functioning properly, they
sounded
okay The hangar bay doors
were sliding open. No one was manning the controls, but the doors
would open automatically when engines were fired. Her computer
programming was malfunctioning, she discovered, and the starboard
shields were jammed, wouldn't operate.

"Wrecker
One, this is Wrecker Two. Can you copy? Over."

This is nothing
to joke about!" Maigrey snapped. Fool kid. He better start
taking this seriously.

"Sorry,
sir. " He chuckled. "I mean, lady."

"You fly on
out ahead of me." Maigrey tried to soften her tone. What he
needed to hear was confidence, not the echo of her own worries and
fears. "And stay close in case you—in case either of us
gets into trouble. "

"You can
count on me, lady."

The young man's
spaceplane swooped out. Maigrey watched it climb, saw it begin to
turn a lazy backward roll—

God, no!

"Level
off!" She fought to keep her voice calm, to keep from screaming
at him.

The plane
continued to roll over, performing a slow, graceful, deadly loop.

"I can't!"
The young pilot's voice cracked in terror. "The controls won't
respond!"

"You have
to override the—

"I'm going
to eras—"

The Scimitar
smashed into
Phoenix's
hull, exploded.

To die in a ball
of fire.

Maigrey pressed
her lips tightly together. She had to keep her attention focused on
her own flying. It would take all her skill and nerve to make it as
far as
Defiant.
Leaving
Phoenix,
she didn't look behind
her, kept her gaze purposefully averted from the charred and smoking
blotch on the hull.

Veering away
from the Corasian ship, she tried to get a fix on
Defiant.
The
destroyer was out of visual range; Sagan must have warned it off. But
Maigrey located it on her scanner and, after some difficulty with the
computer, managed to set her course.

Now all she had
to do was hang on and fly.

"Creator,"
she whispered, shivering in the cold that was creeping through the
hole in her flight suit, "give me the major who sent that kid to
die. That's all I ask. Give him to me."

We took him for
a coward, but he's the very devil incarnate,

William
Shakespeare,
Two Gentlemen of Verona,
Act V, Scene 1

"He's
coming around, sir."

"How is
he?" John Dixter crouched down on his haunches, his hand ruffled
Dion's mane of red-gold hair. The general moved aside, allowing room
for Bennett, his aide, carrying a medical kit. Bennett's deft hands
examined the young man, felt the lump behind Dion's left ear.

Dion groaned,
blinked, and tried to sit up. Dixter gently but firmly pushed him
back down.

"Well,
young man, you very nearly gave your life for the Galactic Democratic
Republic. If Bennett hadn't recognized you, Gobar would have broken
your neck. "

"General
Dixter!' Dion stared at the man. "They told me you were dead!"

"Not yet,"
Dixter said dryly. "How are you feeling?"

"Like my
head's going to split open!"

"You re
lucky, son. You made an excellent target, wandering around that
well-lighted room in full view of God and everyone."

"Just a
bump, sir, ' Bennett said.

"No
concussion?" Dixter asked in low tones.

"I don't
believe so, sir. The skin isn't broken." Bennett dumped two
pills in Dion's hand. "Take these."

"What's
this?"

"Aspirin."

"Sorry,
son," Dixter said, seeing that the boy looked disappointed. "But
it's the only painkiller we've got. We ran out of anything stronger."
He glanced at several blanket-covered forms lying on the deck nearby.

The young man
followed his gaze, flushed, accepted the pills, and swallowed them.
He sat up. trying to act as if nothing was the matter with him.

"Have you
won, sir?" Dion asked, looking around the hangar bay. Everything
was quiet, the mercenaries standing or sitting around in small
groups, talking together in low tones.

"No, no.
Far from it. The proverbial lull before the storm, I'm afraid."
Dixter smiled tiredly, rubbed his stubbled jaw. "We managed to
push the marines back, sealed off all the entrances by jamming the
controls. But they'll be bringing in the heavy stuff soon, probably
brain-gas—"

"And you're
just sitting around, waiting for them?" Dion struggled to his
feet.

"Not much
else we can do, son." the general replied coolly . "Actually,
however, our computer experts are working on overriding the locking
systems on the hangar bay controls. The pilots have their planes
ready to go. All we have to do is buy ihem a little more time. Now,
tell me. How in the name of the Creator did you get here?"

"I . . .
came from Delta deck. Over there. " Dion waved a hand vaguely,

"I meant
how'd you get away from the Corasians? Last I heard, Tusk said you'd
been captured."

Dixter watched
the young man's face intently, saw him grow pale. Dion was obviously
debating whether to answer or not, perhaps decided that some
explanation was due. "I was captured. It ... it was pretty bad.
Sagan and the Lady Maigrey came after me, rescued me. Then. I heard
that Sagan had double-crossed you, that he'd gone back on his word
and ordered you and Tusk and everyone captured. Maigrey sent me to
warn you. I stole a plane and . . . here I am. Guess I'm late, huh?"
He stole a glance at Dixter, apparently hoping the general wouldn't
ask any more questions.

Fortunately,
Dixter had something else on his mind. "Maigrey sent you? Where
is she?"

Dion put a hand
gingerly to the lump behind his ear. winced in pain. "I left her
on
Phoenix,
sir. I asked her to come with me," The young
man frowned. "But she said she had to stay , . .
with him."

The general
heard the young man's bitter emphasis, understood the implication.
"She stayed behind to protect you? To keep . . . urn . . .
him
from following you?"

"So she
said. It's just that—I saw the two of them together and . . .
and. well, never mind."

Dixter watched
the expressive face, knew—by experience— what the young
man must be feeling. The general wished he could help Dion, but he
had his own pain to deal with.

Funny. Dixter
thought, I thought I'd come to terms with the pain years ago. I wish
! could see her again, one last time. There are a lot of things I'd
like to say. . , . But maybe its better this way. She was always
superstitious about good-byes.

Dixter reached
out, took Dion's hand, shook it. "It's good to see you again,
son. know you're alive. If you could take hack a message to her from
me—"

"What do
you mean, sir? 'Take back a message. Dion ceased wrestling with his
private hell, understood that he had entered another's. He looked up
in alarm. "You can send it yourself. You said the planes were
ready to go —